A Twisted Game
by jayel7
Summary: A recent enemy of D'Artagnan and an old enemy of Athos devise a unique form of revenge. Brotherhood and D'Artagnan h/c. Some coarse language and violence. Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.


A Twisted Game

Outside the barracks in the Musketeer garrison, the piercing notes of a bugle began playing simultaneously with the first faint rays of sunrise.

"It's too damned early for this," Porthos muttered, blinking open his eyes.

Athos uttered a muffled curse into his pillow.

Aramis groaned and reluctantly stirred.

D'Artagnan pulled his pillow over his head in an effort to shut out the noise. He had been a musketeer for ten days and had quickly learned to detest the bugle.

As the other musketeers moved about with a mixture of grunts, groans and curses, the bugle played on relentlessly.

The barracks door was flung open with a crash and another musketeer entered. Florian, a red-haired, freckled man, loud of voice and incessantly cheerful, brought in several large laundry baskets and set them down. "Gentlemen! It's a beautiful day," he enthused. "Time to be up and greet the morning."

Someone threw a boot at him, which missed, and another voiced a slur against his parentage.

Florian continued undeterred. "It's laundry day again. Drop off your dirty underwear, unless you want to wear it for another two weeks. It really is advisable to change it more than once a month, for those of you who think otherwise. You and your fellow musketeers know who you are. Add in all your dirty shirts and breeches. Madame Roussell will be here early this morning to collect the laundry. I'll be back in a few minutes to pick up the baskets. Be quick or be left out." He departed, whistling a happy tune.

Athos and D'Artagnan roused themselves and sat on their bunks, facing each other. "Why did I decide to sleep here last night," Athos muttered, looking bleary-eyed.

"You slept here because you said it was very late and you didn't want to go all the way back to your apartment," D'Artagnan answered. They removed the shirts they had slept in and stood up to pull off their underwear. D'Artagnan made a face. "Do you ever get used to the sound of the bugle waking you up?"

Athos's answer was curt. "No." They went over to the nearest basket and dropped in their underwear and shirts. Porthos and Aramis followed right behind them and contributed theirs.

Porthos glanced over at the naked D'Artagnan and shook his head. "You are one skinny boy!"

D'Artagnan refused to be nettled and laughed. "I'm big enough where it counts."

"I don't know about that," Porthos teased him.

"Tell me this is not going to be another pointless argument about size," said Athos. "From what I can see, all of us should be well satisfied with what nature has given us. The only time we've argued about anything more stupid was the night after D'Artagnan won his commission. As I recall, we all had too much to drink and you, Porthos, started an argument about which one of us could piss the longest distance."

"I did start that, didn't I," Porthos said, looking pleased with himself.

"It was stupid," reiterated Athos.

"No need to get on your high horse, Comte," Porthos came back. "As _I_ recall, you said it was a good idea and wanted to be the first one to show what you could do."

"I'd never have gotten involved if I'd been sober."

"Anyway, I won," put in D'Artagnan.

"No, you didn't," Aramis insisted. "I beat you."

"You want to try it again," D'Artagnan offered. "I'll prove-"

"No, you won't," Athos broke in. "What is the matter with you with you and Aramis? Are you ten years old again! Let's gather up the rest of our dirty clothes and get dressed, so that we can have some breakfast."

After the four musketeers sat down at their usual table, Serge appeared bearing a platter filled with egg and cheese omelets, bacon and freshly baked white bread. He immediately returned with a pitcher of hot apple cider and a supply of cups. Just as they began to eat, a Red Guard rode into the garrison, tossed his reins to the stable boy and hurried up the steps to Captain Treville's office.

"I wonder what's that's about," Aramis said.

"We'll find out soon enough," Porthos commented. "Since a Red Guard is involved, it's not likely to be good." He cut himself a slice of bread and looked across the table at Athos. "What're you plannin' on doin' today? You gonna get in more sword practice with the brat here?"

D'Artagnan stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth and gave Porthos an indignant look, which Porthos ignored.

"I suppose so," Athos answered.

"Porthos and I will have to hang around and find something to keep us busy," Aramis said. "We aren't supposed to escort the king's great-uncle and his wife back home to Melun until tomorrow." They looked up to see the Red Guard visitor coming down the steps. The man got his horse and quickly rode out.

"Somethin' is up," Porthos commented.

"Likely as not, the something will involve us," Athos said, reaching for more bacon. "I suggest that we enjoy our breakfast while we can."

Capt. Treville came down the steps and walked over to their table, giving them a nod of greeting and pouring himself a cup of cider. "I have two things to tell you," he announced. "The first is that Labarge has escaped from the Bastille."

D'Artagnan looked at him in disbelief. "How can that be? Everyone said that the wound I gave him was mortal. He should be dead by now."

"A lesser man would have died, but Labarge's strength and bulk apparently pulled him through and he's been recovering extremely well. So well in fact, that the cardinal was to have him hanged later this week, as he had vowed he would do. I'll get to more about Labarge in a moment." Treville turned his attention to his most dashing musketeer, "Aramis, you and Porthos finish your breakfast and get over to the palace. The king's relatives have decided to return to Melun today, rather than waiting until tomorrow."

Porthos frowned. "You want us to escort the king's relatives instead of goin' after Labarge?"

Treville spoke with an air of resignation. "The king is extremely fond of his great-uncle. He told me that he wanted some of my best men as escorts and I told him that I would send you and Aramis. I can't risk offending his majesty by substituting someone else. I was going to tell you to stay overnight in Melun before starting back, but Labarge's escape changes things. I'll need you to return immediately."

"Yes, Captain," Aramis responded. "What more can you tell us about Labarge's escape?"

"He's been gone since yesterday, when he killed the guard bringing his evening meal. His escape wasn't detected until this morning, when another guard reported for duty." Treville sipped on his cider. "It appears that he had help with his escape. He had a visitor claming to be a priest, but the priest who normally visits knew nothing about any other priest coming to see prisoners."

"He could be a long way from here by now," D'Artagnan said, looking glum.

"Or he could be hidin' out here in Paris," Porthos said. "Lots of places to hide in Paris."

"I'll be sending out as many men as possible to search the city for any sign of him."

"If he left the city, do you have any idea where he could have gone," Athos asked.

I'm hopeful that the cardinal will be able to furnish some helpful information since he knows something of Labarge's background." Treville turned to the newest musketeer. "D'Artagnan, I'm going to write a note for you to deliver to the cardinal. Wait at the palace for his answer and bring it to me as soon as you have it."

"Yes, sir," the boy answered.

"Aramis and Porthos, you need to get packed up and be on your way." Treville drained his cup and headed back to his office.

With the cardinal's note of reply secured in his saddle bags, D'Artagnan had traveled only a very short distance from the palace when he noticed two men scuffling in an alley. Breaking up fights was not a duty of musketeers, but he felt that the king wouldn't like brawling so close to the palace grounds. Impulsively, he decided to intervene and he dismounted. The two men stumbled around as if drunk, shoving each other further into the alley. Not bothering to draw his sword for a couple of drunks, he tried to sound authoritative. "Break it up," he ordered.

The two men turned to face him. They were similar in appearance, both of them being tall, muscular men with light brown hair. From the shadows emerged another man, not quite as tall as the other two, but considerably heavier. The man gave D'Artagnan a contemptuous look. "We meet again."

D'Artagnan stared in shock. "Labarge!" Before he had time to react further, the two other men grabbed him. He tried to fight them off and reach for his sword, but their powerful arms tightened around him like a vise. One of them stuck a gag in his mouth while the other quickly tied his hands.

"Didn't expect to see me again, did you, boy," Labarge said, relieving D'Artagnan of his weapons. One of the other men searched him, finding a dagger concealed in his boot, which was turned over to Labarge. He was then grasped on either side and led through a series of twisting back alleys to a deserted looking section of the city. They ended up in a warehouse district, part of which had been destroyed by fire. He was shoved through the heavy door of a stone building. As his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he saw that the building looked empty and had one tiny window high up near the lofty ceiling. "Let me warn you that it will do no good to yell once I remove your gag," Labarge growled. "Hardly anybody comes to this area since the fire and the walls of this building are too thick for you to be heard. If you yell anyway, I'm going to get mad. When I get mad, I get mean. I'll start breaking as many of the bones in your body as I can. I swear I'll enjoy every minute of it." He leaned in closer. "I wasn't at my best after fighting Treville, when I had to fight you. That's the only reason you won and you nearly got me hanged. I owe you, boy, for what you did to me." Labarge pulled out the gag.

"It was a fair fight!"

"Don't talk to me about fair! I can tell you're the kind that's had it easy. You never had to fight to survive the way I have."

D'Artagnan saw from the expression in Labarge's angry eyes that the man couldn't wait to get even with him. He would have to bide his time for a better opportunity to fight off his captors. D'Artagnan looked at the other two men and then back at Labarge. "Who are they?"

One of the men stepped closer, facing D'Artagnan. "My name is Marcel Benard. It may surprise you, but I'm a former musketeer. Have you heard of me?"

"No."

He shrugged "No, I don't suppose you would know of me. You're nothing but a baby musketeer. You don't know much of anything yet." He tilted his head in the direction of the other man. "This is my brother Clement."

D'Artagnan chose not to respond to Marcel's disparaging evaluation of him. "You were waiting for me, but how did you know I'd be there?"

"It was fairly easy. From my time of being a musketeer, I knew that the newest recruit is given the most errands to run, so we watched the palace and the garrison and waited for you to come by and you did. You'll be pleased to know that we're leaving now to make arrangements for someone else to keep you company. Labarge will be keeping watch outside until we get back."

After being left alone, D'Artagnan sought repeatedly to find some give in the ropes that bound his wrists, but the bonds held tight. After accomplishing nothing more than irritating the skin on his wrists, he sat down on the stone floor to wait for whatever was coming next.

Athos finished sharpening his sword to the finest edge he could put on it and looked at the garrison gate once again. D'Artagnan still had not returned. He put the sword back in its sheath and went into the stable to saddle his horse. He didn't know what could have delayed D'Artagnan, but knew how fascinated he was by the sights that Paris offered. Frequently, he would stop to gaze at the elaborate buildings, statues, shop windows and other sights that were familiar to the older musketeers, but a distracting novelty to the farm boy from Gascony. He was inclined to doubt that this was the reason for D'Artagnan's tardiness, but if so, Treville would be furious. He wanted to spare the newest musketeer from the captain's wrath, although he would not be spared from Athos's severe reprimand.

Before Athos could tighten the cinch on his saddle, the stable boy came in leading D'Artagnan's horse. He spotted Athos and hurried over. "Athos! D'Artagnan's horse just came back in, but without D'Artagnan. What do you think could have happened?"

"I don't know," Athos said, looking over the horse and seeing nothing amiss. He reached into the saddlebag and discovered a folded note in the bottom bearing the cardinal's seal. "Take care of the horse," he told the stable boy and headed for Treville's office to inform him of the return of the horse and to give him the cardinal's note. Treville unsealed the note, read it and handed it back to Athos to read. Athos looked up from the note. "The cardinal reveals some interesting information on Labarge's background. I can now understand why Labarge is a brute, having been raised by a father who was such a brute himself that he was killed by his own son. It's interesting that he comes from the Picardy region, the same as Marcel and Clement Benard."

"Not only that, but they're all from the town of Amiens."

"You think they know each other?"

"Almost certainly, even though the Benard brothers came from minor nobility and Labarge was the son of the village blacksmith. In small towns like Amiens, there's usually a certain amount of mingling, regardless of class. Since Labarge apparently had help in escaping, I'm thinking that it may have come from the Benards." He paused, remembering. "One of the reasons that I considered allowing the brothers to join the musketeers is that they spoke the Picardy language, and I thought this might be useful. Clement, as you may remember, was a bit slow and simply not musketeer material."

"And Marcel turned out to be a thief."

"Yes, unfortunately. The Benards' father made some bad investments that largely depleted the family's assets and I think that's what tempted Marcel to steal. I'll never forget how bitter he was against you, Athos, when you discovered that he had stolen gifts intended for the king and queen."

Athos was thoughtful. "Do you still feel that it was the right thing to do to tell no one about Marcel Benard's thievery?"

Treville answered without hesitation. "Yes, I do. He deserved prison for what he did, but making his crime public would have given the musketeers a terrible black eye. The cardinal would have taken advantage of such a scandal and the king would have lost confidence in us. It was best to discharge Marcel Benard quietly. I assume that you have never told anyone about this."

Athos spoke rather stiffly. "I gave you my word that I would tell no one, not even Aramis and Porthos."

"I shouldn't have questioned your word, but I know how close you are with Aramis and Porthos. Speaking of which, I'm most anxious for them to return and help us discover what happened with D'Artagnan. I swear that boy keeps turning my hair grayer."

Athos defended him. "He always means well."

"Oh, yes, he always _means_ well. Nevertheless, he manages to worry me half to death. And don't bother to tell me that he doesn't do the same to you and to Porthos and Aramis."

"I wouldn't think of denying it."

Treville grunted and put on his hat. "I'm leaving at once to confer personally with the cardinal. After he left us, Marcel was with the Red Guards for a time. The cardinal may be able to provide more information on Marcel." Treville went down the stairs, followed by Athos.

Treville left quickly, while Athos provided his thirsty horse with a long drink of water before setting out to look for D'Artagnan. As Athos prepared to mount his horse, a ragged street urchin ran up to him. "Monsieur Athos?"

"Yes," Athos replied.

The child spoke eagerly. "I was told that if I brought you this that you would pay me." He held out a piece of paper, smeared with dirt from his grimy hand. Athos took it and read it.

"Come at once to the back of The Wild Boar Tavern on Rue Cournot," the note read. "Come alone and on foot. Obey these instructions or else D'Artagnan dies."

"Who gave you this note," Athos demanded.

"A priest."

"A priest?" Athos was incredulous. "What did he look like?"

The child hesitated. "I don't know, except that he looked like a priest. He had a cowl on his head that made it hard to see his face. Are you going to pay me?"

Athos reached into his pocket and withdrew some coins. "Here." He looked at the urchin's bare, dirty feet. "Have your mother buy you some shoes. The weather will be turning cold before much longer."

"Oui, Monsieur. Merci! With a grin, he took the coins and ran off.

Athos stood for a moment in rare indecision, and then returned his horse to the stable. He couldn't risk waiting for Treville to return to inform him of this development and would have to leave the note on the captain's desk. He wished fervently that Porthos and Aramis were present to back him up, but there was no way he could wait for them. He would have to obey the instructions of the note and go alone.

When Athos reached the back of The Wild Boar Tavern, he found Marcel and Clement Benard waiting for him. His expression reflected his displeasure. "Why am I not surprised that it's the two of you! Where is D'Artagnan? How is he," Athos demanded. A look passed between the brothers and Clement disappeared.

"He's fine," Marcel said. "Not a scratch on him … yet."

Athos withdrew his sword and placed it against Marcel's throat. "I can trade your life for his."

Marcel backed off a little as Athos's sword nicked his throat, causing a trickle of blood, but he was not intimidated. "No, there's not going to be any trade, Athos. You're not in charge here. I am. You could kill me, but then your young friend would die. My brother knows how long it's going to take us to get back to where D'Artagnan is being held. If I don't show up on time, my brother and Labarge will kill him as slowly and as painfully as possible."

"I can't believe that your own life means so little to you."

Marcel moved the tip of the sword slightly away from his throat. He gave a short, mirthless laugh. "That's where you're wrong. I don't have a life. You saw to that. I have nothing worth losing, including my life. My brother and Labarge will never trade D'Artagnan's life for mine. Labarge has a special grudge against D'Artagnan and my brother always does what I tell him to do. Now, if you want to see the boy alive again, hand me all your weapons and let's stop wasting time."

Knowing that he had no other choice, Athos reluctantly handed over his sword and Marcel removed the other weapons hanging at his belt.

"I'll also take the dagger that I know is in your boot."

Athos withdrew the dagger and handed it over. Marcel pointed to the end of the alley. "After you."

When they reached the building where D'Artagnan was being held, Marcel gave three sharp raps on the door. The door was opened by Clement, who looked relieved to see his brother. Marcel put a hand to Athos's back and pushed him inside.

Athos saw D'Artagnan standing, but bent over clutching his stomach, his hands unbound. Labarge stood in front of him, his fist raised. D'Artagnan straightened up when he spotted the older musketeer and Athos saw that there was a red mark on one cheekbone and his lip was split and bleeding. "Athos!" The boy impulsively rushed towards Athos and hugged him. Labarge started after D'Artagnan and grabbed his arm to pull him away. Marcel shook his head at him and he stepped back. Athos's gaze swept over D'Artagnan. "Have they hurt you much?"

"No, not too much. Labarge was just getting started in on me when you came. How did Marcel get to you?"

"He had a note delivered to me. It said you would be killed if I didn't come alone to the destination mentioned."

D'Artagnan's expression was troubled. "It's dangerous for you to be here, Athos. I've heard them talking. Marcel hates you and wants you dead."

"I know how Marcel feels about me, but I couldn't very well risk letting them kill you."

Marcel broke in. "That's enough." He reached into a corner and brought out more rope. "Watch them," he told his brother and Labarge." When both prisoners' hands and feet were tied, he shoved them to the floor. With this done, he turned to his brother. "Come with me, Clement. We have to take care of some business."

"What do you want me to do," Labarge asked.

"Keep a watch outside while we're gone. It may be quite a while until we get back. Keep checking on our musketeer guests and make certain their ropes stay tight. Whatever you do, don't kill them while we're gone. I have other plans."

"I'll take care of things," Labarge answered and followed the Benard brothers outside.

When they were alone, D'Artagnan spoke up. "Athos, who knows that you left the garrison because of me?"

"Treville should know by now. I left the note I received on his desk."

D'Artagnan sounded hopeful. "The captain will be looking for us, and when Porthos and Aramis get back, they'll tear Paris apart to find us."

Athos was less optimistic. "Paris is a big place. They won't know where to start looking and I expect that we'll be moved somewhere else. Labarge can't stay in Paris too long and risk being seen."

"What're we going to do then?"

"That will depend on whatever they decide to do with us."

D'Artagnan's voice was determined. "I'm not going to let them kill us without a fight."

Athos was equally unwavering. "Neither am I. If we go down, we're taking them with us, but I'm counting on getting us out of this when the time is right."

It was evening by the time the Benard brothers returned and entered the building, along with Labarge. "Untie them, Clement," Marcel ordered, "And give them a few minutes to get feeling back in their hands and feet."

Free of their bonds, the two musketeers stood up, flexing their hands and stamping their feet to restore circulation. All the while, Labarge and Clement kept weapons trained upon them. Marcel walked over to them, a smile on his face. "We're going to have a little contest." He pulled a piece of straw from his pocket, broke it into several pieces, and held the pieces in his closed fist. "Both of you are going to choose a straw. Whoever gets the shortest straw wins … if you want to think of it that way."

Athos looked at him with deep suspicion. "Wins what?"

"Why, the right to die! We're going to kill one of you – the one who draws the shortest straw."

D'Artagnan responded angrily. "What if we refuse to take part in your damned contest?"

Labarge spoke up. "Then you both die. This way, at least one of you gets to live."

"You don't need straws," Athos said, fixing Marcel with a steely glare. "I'm the one you want to get even with. If one of us has to die, it should be me."

D'Artagnan looked at the other musketeer in horror. "No, Athos!"

Athos turned to him. "I've lived longer than you."

D'Artagnan spoke in desperation. "Not that much longer. It's not like you're old enough to be my father." His voice broke. "Athos, you can't do this!"

"I'm losing patience," Marcel said. "Go ahead and choose a straw or both of you die now. It's up to you."

Athos chose a straw and Marcel held out his hand to D'Artagnan to choose. Slowly, D'Artagnan made his choice.

"Hold them up," Marcel ordered and both musketeers did so. Marcel grinned. "It looks like Athos is the winner. He has the shortest straw."

"No, he doesn't!" D'Artagnan snapped his straw in two. "I have."

Athos looked at him, aghast. "D'Artagnan!"

"I'm afraid that doesn't count." Marcel swung his sword at Athos's midsection, but D'Artagnan pushed Athos out of the way in time. The sword, instead, cut into D'Artagnan's thigh. Marcel stepped back and laughed. "I don't think I've ever seen such a touching performance in my life. Not even at the theater." He laughed again.

"You demented bastard," Athos snarled, advancing on Marcel, only to be stopped by the swords of all three captors. "What kind of crazy game are you playing?"

Malicious amusement was on Marcel's face. "A game that I'm going to enjoy and one that I guarantee you're not going to enjoy. Clement," he ordered, "Tie them up again and we'll need to wrap something around D'Artagnan's leg. I'm not ready for him to bleed to death just yet."

"I've got something for his leg," Labarge said, pushing D'Artagnan back down to the floor. He pulled off a dirty scarf from around his neck and roughly bound up the leg, which was bleeding profusely. Labarge gave him a wolfish grin as he jerked on the ends of the bandage to tie it off. D'Artagnan winced and gave him a sullen look, but he was beginning to feel weak and dizzy and said nothing.

The two musketeers were left alone much of the time until after dark, when Labarge re-entered, carrying a small bag. He set it down beside Athos and untied his hands, then stepped back with his sword drawn. "Better eat and drink while you can," he advised. "We're moving out tonight and it will be a while until your next meal." Athos reached inside the bag, which contained a thick slice of brown bread and a water skin. Having had nothing to eat or drink since breakfast, Athos quickly devoured the bread. The water skin wasn't completely full, but he drank all there was in it and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Labarge had lowered his sword and sat back on his haunches, watching him.

Athos looked over at D'Artagnan. "What about him?"

There was a malevolent gleam in Labarge's eyes. "Didn't I tell you? You was supposed to share, but it looks like you took D'Artagnan's portion. Now that was greedy."

Athos lunged at Labarge, knocking him backwards and causing him to drop his sword. Athos fastened his fingers around Labarge's thick neck and squeezed until the man's eyes started to bulge. Using his superior weight and strength, Labarge managed to roll over and grab the truncheon tucked into his waistband. He raised it and struck Athos hard enough on the back of the head to make him loosen his grip and allow Labarge to gain control.

"Athos," D'Artagnan cried out. He twisted in vain to loosen his bonds, and then to his relief, saw Athos stir.

"Don't worry, boy," Labarge sneered, grasping Athos's hands and re-tying them. "He's not dead. The game's not over yet."

It was around midnight, as best the two musketeers could judge, when they were untied and led outside to a farm wagon that was now parked next to the stone building. They were ordered to climb inside, where their hands and feet were bound again and gags placed in their mouths. Canvas covered the sides and back of the wagon. Labarge climbed in after them and pulled the back flap closed. They rode in silence for a long time, as the road beneath them became increasingly rough and bumpy. When the wagon stopped, Labarge yanked the gags out of their mouths. "We're out in the countryside now and it's deserted," he told them. "Won't do you any good to make noise, so you might as well keep quiet." He lumbered his way to the end of the wagon and jumped out to join Marcel and Clement on the wagon seat.

"How's your head," D'Artagnan asked.

"Not good, but I've had worse headaches from drinking too much," Athos replied. "What about your leg?"

"The bleeding has slowed down." He made no mention of the throbbing that had set in.

Athos inched his way closer to the end of the wagon and peered through the gap left open in the flap. "It looks as if we're in the middle of nowhere. My guess is that we're already in Picardy or headed that way. The Benards and Labarge grew up there, so they're familiar with the area." He moved back closer to D'Artagnan.

"Somebody must've been hauling chickens in this wagon." D'Artagnan wrinkled his nose. "It smells like chickens."

"Chicken smells shouldn't bother a farm boy like you."

"I only fed the chickens. I didn't live with them and their smells." He paused. "I wish that my farm was still the way it used to be. Damn Labarge! I miss my home." He paused. "There always seemed to be something good cooking in the kitchen."

"My brother Thomas and I weren't allowed in our kitchen when we were small children. We had a temperamental cook and my mother was afraid she would quit if we stayed underfoot and got in her way. Not that it really mattered. I was sent away from my home when I was seven to attend boarding school."

"I can't imagine my father sending me away from home. We spent a lot of time together."

"When I left, my mother cried and my father told me that boarding school would be a good experience and would help make a man out of me. I suppose it did, eventually, but it's hard to think about becoming a man when you're only seven and homesick."

"I went to school in the village near our farm. I didn't get along very well with the schoolmaster. He said that I was disruptive and talked too much."

Athos's tone was dry. "Imagine that."

"He was boring! I couldn't stand it. He beat me all the time because I wouldn't behave."

"Which you probably deserved," Athos said, amused by the thought of the irrepressible D'Artagnan. After a pause, he added, "You survived your schooling, though, as did I. Perhaps it even helped to prepare us for whatever Labarge and the Benards have in store for us."

It was well after midnight when Porthos and Aramis arrived back at the garrison from Melun. "The lamps are still on in the captain's office," remarked Porthos. "Somethin' must be up."

"Let's take care of our horses and find out."

Treville looked up from a map spread out on his desk, when the two musketeers knocked and entered his office. "I'm glad you're back," he said.

"Any sign of Labarge since we left," Porthos asked.

Trville looked grim. "None. I've had men out today looking all over Paris. Now, we have a bigger problem. D'Artagnan and Athos are missing, and I strongly suspect their disappearance is linked to Labarge and Marcel and Clement Benard. I'm sure you both remember the Benard brothers."

Aramis spoke. "What's the connection between Labarge and the Benards?"

"You may recall that the Benards are from Picardy. So is Labarge. They all grew up in the same village." Treville showed them the note left by Athos and related how Marcel Benard had come to be discharged from the Musketeers for thievery and had blamed Athos for his discharge. He added, "The family fortunes declined while Marcel was with the Musketeers and probably was the motive for what he did. After leaving here, Marcel joined the Red Guards for a time, but the cardinal said that he was prone to getting into arguments and fights with the other men and had to be let go. Both brothers were reduced to picking up odd jobs here and there and apparently left Paris. Recently, they were seen back in Paris and probably had a hand in Labarge's escape."

"You were looking a map when we came in," Aramis said. "Do you think they may have gone back to Picardy and taken Athos and D'Artagnan with them?"

"That would be my best guess. When men are on the run, they tend to return to places with which they're familiar and Labarge would certainly want to get out of Paris."

Porthos looked at Aramis. "We can get fresh horses and be on our way tonight to search for 'em."

Treville was firm. "No. It's only a few hours until dawn. You've just come back from a trip, and you need to get what rest you can and start out at first light. According to this map," he tapped on it with his finger, "There's one main road out of Paris that leads to Amiens, which is where they're from. They wouldn't take the main road and risk being seen. There are numerous other roads, if they can even be termed such, that wind through areas that are mostly wilderness. The Benards and Labarge are probably familiar with the roads and would have taken one of them. Since there's no way to know which road they would choose, I'm sending as many men as I can spare to search in Picardy. I'll assign all of you a particular area to look in."

Porthos pounded his fist into his other hand. "Damn it! I hate havin' to wait until daybreak before we can start searchin'."

"I know how you feel, but everyone needs to get prepared for the search. I've told Serge to gather provisions for all of you to take with you. Aramis, you may want to take some medical supplies in case they're needed."

The romantic musketeer looked unaccustomedly serious. "I'll see to it, Captain. I swear to you that we won't stop searching until we find them."

The wagon carrying Athos and D'Artagnan traveled for some time, over rougher and rougher terrain, before it came to a halt. Labarge came into the wagon, dragged them to the edge and untied their feet. "Get out," he ordered. "We're stopping here for the night." Labarge went off to confer with the other two captors, and then returned for them as feeling was being restored to their feet. He pointed towards a tree. "Get over there and sit down." They obeyed and he tied a rope around the tree, connecting it to the ropes that bound their hands. After taking care of the horses, the captors rolled out their blankets and lay down for the night."

The two musketeers leaned back against the tree trunk and D'Artagnan tried to ignore the pain in his thigh, thankful that the bleeding had been reduced to a slow seepage. Despite their discomfort, they dozed off until voices woke them. Standing a short distance away, Labarge and Marcel were arguing.

"What is it they're saying," D'Artagnan asked. "I can't understand it."

"They're using the language spoken by the people of Picardy," Athos replied. "I only know a word or two, but I recognize the sound of it. Whatever they're saying, I doubt that it will mean anything good for us."

"I thought you wanted to get revenge on Athos," Labarge said, his voice getting louder. "The same way that I want to get revenge on the boy. I don't know what you're waiting for. I say, let's kill them now!"

"Patience, my friend," Marcel snapped back. He placed a conciliatory hand on Labarge's shoulder and lowered his voice. "Revenge is sweeter if you draw it out. As soon as I saw how much they cared about each other, I knew what to do. If we can make D'Artagnan suffer, you get what you want. I get what I want by making Athos witness it, knowing that he can't do a damned thing about it."

"I don't know," Labarge grumbled. "I like things straightforward."

"Trust me on this. I know a bit about Athos from when I was in the Musketeers. There was something he felt guilty about that made him go on drinking binges. I never discovered what it was, but he's a man who can't deal with guilt." His mouth twisted in an expression of bitterness. "Despite it all, Capt. Treville made him his second-in-command and called him his best soldier. Best soldier! He was a drunk, but somehow he pulled himself together each day. I should have been Treville's best soldier, but Athos destroyed my chances. Believe me, he will be killed. So will D'Artagnan, but only when the time is right."

Labarge seemed disgruntled, but reluctantly agreed. "It's not the way I'd choose, but we'll do it your way."

"My way is best. You'll see. The sun is well up and we need to move out. We'll get the horses saddled, while Clement takes care of the prisoners." Clement came over and began to untie them. As soon as the ropes were loosened sufficiently, Athos launched himself at Clement, kneeing him in the groin and punching him in the face. Both men were on the ground when Labarge and Marcel pulled Athos off of Clement and held him back. "You're going to pay for this," Marcel threatened. "Labarge! He turned towards him and Athos braced himself for the impact of Labarge's fists. Instead, Labarge stepped in front of D'Artagnan and planted a vicious knee in the young musketeer's groin. D'Artagnan bent over in pain, but Labarge forced him upright and punched him repeatedly in the stomach until he collapsed on the ground, gasping for air. Labarge pulled him up and again raised his fist, but was restrained by Marcel. "Stop! We need him to be able to walk." Labarge slowly lowered his fist.

"You miserable, fucking bastards," Athos raged, his blue eyes filled with fury.

Marcel faced Athos, a slight smile on his face. "Every time you try something like that, Athos, D'Artagnan is going to pay the price for it."

He was gratified by the frustrated expression that crossed Athos's face. "Keep in mind what I said." He glanced over at Clement, who was now on his feet. "Get the ropes." Clement went over to the wagon and pulled long ropes out from under the wagon seat. "Labarge, take D'Artagnan's boots," instructed Marcel.

Labarge gestured to D'Artagnan to sit back down and he removed the musketeer's boots. "They're nice boots," he commented to Marcel.

"Keep them then."

"They won't fit me."

"You can always sell them," Marcel said, taking one of the long ropes from his brother and tying the rope around Athos's wrists. "Your ride is over, Musketeers. The trail ahead is too rough and narrow for a wagon, so we're leaving it here and turning the extra horses loose." He mounted his horse, holding on to the other end of the rope and started off, forcing Athos to follow behind. Labarge did the same with D'Artagnan. After traveling through thick timber and brush, they came to an open area, surrounded by rocks. Marcel and Labarge picked up the pace. When their captives fell, they were dragged along the stony ground until their captors halted long enough for them to regain their feet. The men continued their journey, stopping only to answer the calls of nature, and giving the two musketeers scant time to rest. Only when the sun was setting, did they stop for the night beside a narrow stream. Athos and D'Artagnan were led over to a tree, where they collapsed exhausted on the ground. Once again, their ropes bound them to a tree.

While their captors re-filled their water skins and saw to their horses, Athos regained his breath enough to speak to D'Artagnan. "How are you holding up?"

D'Artagnan's face was dirty from falling on the ground, and the soles of his bare feet were cut and bruised. The wound in his thigh had broken open and was bleeding again. Despite this, he put on a brave front. "I'm a musketeer now, remember. I'm supposed to be able to take care of myself. Don't worry about me."

"Don't bother telling me not to worry about you. I feel responsible for you."

"Because you consider yourself my big brother?"

"Something like that." Athos was equally tired and his feet were also sore, but he had been allowed to keep his boots. Neither was he losing blood like D'Artagnan.

After awhile, Labarge came over, holding out a water skin and two slices of bread. Athos looked at him with suspicion. "I won't take it, unless you give D'Artagnan something, too."

Labarge appeared to think it over. "Tell you what. You can share it with him." He offered Athos the water skin and one of the slices of bread. The water skin was full and Athos could have drunk all of it, but restrained himself and quickly devoured his slice of bread. Labarge took the water skin and other slice of bread, but pretended to stumble, dropping both on the ground. The water leaked out and he stepped on the bread, grinding it into the dirt. His eyes held a malicious gleam as he looked at D'Artagnan. "Too bad. Looks like you lost your share." He grinned at D'Artagnan and walked away.

D'Artagnan said nothing, but his parched throat longed desperately for the water that had been spilled. Athos swore repeatedly under his breath and vowed that he would make their captors pay.

For two days, Aramis and Porthos had explored every trail they came across in Picardy. They arose as soon as it was light enough to see and searched until it was too dark to search any longer. They found no sign of their missing friends, having luck only in coming across a stag. Porthos stood back while Aramis aimed his musket. Besides being a better shot, Aramis, being of the nobility, was allowed to hunt wild game. For Porthos, hunting wild game would have meant breaking the law. After killing the stag, the two men skinned and dressed the meat and salted it down to preserve it.

"What're we goin' to do with all this meat," Porthos asked, as they cooked a portion of it for their evening meal.

"The little village we passed on the way up here had a church," Aramis answered, turning over the meat with his sword. "We'll leave most of it with the priest to give to the poor in the village. They never get to eat meat like this, unless some of the men risk poaching to get it."

"When I was growin' up, the only time I ever got to eat meat was when I stole it. You're a good man, Aramis. Have I ever told you that?"

"You have." Aramis flashed his charming smile. "But not nearly often enough."

Porthos laughed, and then grew serious. "I wish we could find some sign of Athos and the brat. Labarge couldn't handle both of 'em. The Benards have to be with him." He cut off a piece of the meat and blew on it to cool it. "I never did like Marcel, but I didn't know he was a thief. Come to think of it, I'm not that much better than he is. I was a thief, myself."

"You're nothing like him." Aramis cut off a piece of meat for himself. "You grew up with no family and you stole because you had to. Marcel didn't have to steal. He made the choice to do it."

Porthos swallowed a piece of meat, before continuing. "I always thought there was somethin' strange about Marcel, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Clement wasn't very smart. He would do whatever Marcel told him to do. We already know that Labarge is a murderer. I got to say it. I'm worried."

"So am I," Aramis admitted, "But if any of us can take care of himself, it's Athos. As for D'Artagnan, he's good with a sword and he has plenty of guts."

Porthos cut himself another slice of meat. "Yeah, he's good with a sword and we both know he's not short on guts, but he's still inexperienced and he hasn't quite grown up yet."

"No, he definitely hasn't grown up."

"You're damned right, or else he wouldn't have got mixed with a married woman like Madame Bonacieux, to say nothing of Milady. He's too young to get involved with women like that. He should've known better, but he didn't."

"I'm not exactly in a position to criticize him for it. I can't deny that getting involved with a married woman is a foolish and risky thing to do."

"Then why do you do it?"

Aramis shrugged. "If the lady is willing, it's hard to say no, even when she's …."

"Even when she's what?"

Aramis looked away. "Nothing. Let's finish eating and get some sleep. We need to be up early again tomorrow. There are only a few more trails we haven't explored yet. With luck, one of them will turn out to be the right one."

After leaving the campsite, Athos and D'Artagnan began another day of being forced to walk behind the horses of Labarge and Marcel. D'Artagnan, weak from the loss of blood and with his feet in no condition for walking, kept falling. Labarge wheeled his horse around and came back to where D'Artagnan had fallen on the ground. "Keep up," he warned. "I've had enough of this. Next time you fall, we may decide to kill you."

With difficulty, D'Artagnan struggled to his feet. Making a strenuous effort, he continued to walk on for longer than Athos would have thought possible, but he eventually staggered and fell, unable to rise. Labarge got off his horse and started back towards D'Artagnan, drawing his sword. "Can't say you wasn't warned," he snarled and put his sword against D'Artagnan's throat.

"NO," Athos shouted, fighting against the confines of his rope.

Labarge spoke to Athos. "He can't walk any further. You can see that for yourself."

"Then I'll carry him." Sweat ran down Athos's face and he appealed to Marcel in desperation. "If he can't walk, I'll carry him. Don't kill him!"

Marcel took a moment to think it over, and then nodded. "Let him be, Labarge."

Labarge withdrew his sword.

"Get the ropes off of us," Athos said. "What do you think we're capable of if I'm carrying him?"

"You have a point," Marcel said and cut the ropes of both musketeers.

Athos went over to D'Artagnan. "Athos, you're tired yourself. You can't carry me," D'Artagnan protested.

"I can and I will."

"You're not Porthos."

"No, I'm not, but I'm strong enough to carry you. I'm not leaving you here."

Athos lifted him up and slung him over his shoulder. Marcel gestured to Athos to walk in front of the captors.

Athos estimated that he had walked for a couple of hours carrying D'Artagnan, when Clement rode on ahead and led the way into a group of trees beside a spring. The others followed and Athos eased his burden to the ground. He stood up straight and flexed his back to ease the strain. He bent down again to check the wound in the boy's thigh. The wound had bled freely while he had been forced to walk, but the bleeding had slowed down while he was being carried. Athos tightened the bandage, and D'Artagnan flinched and opened his eyes. He seemed to have been unconscious most of the time while being carried, coming to only once to mumble something that Athos couldn't make out. "You must have infection in your wound," Athos told him. "I could feel the heat from your leg while I was carrying you."

D'Artagnan, who had been looking down at his leg, raised his eyes to Athos's face. "They might have killed me like they threatened, if not for you, Athos. You have my gratitude, more than I can say. It couldn't have been easy for you to carry me."

"You would have done the same for me."

D'artagnan moved his leg, grimacing in pain. "Don't be too certain." He managed a faint smile. "You're heavier than I am."

Both musketeers looked up to see Clement approaching. He carried a water skin in one hand and a small cloth bag in the other. "Here," he said, holding out the water skin to Athos. "I filled it up from the spring." Suspecting another trick, Athos made no move to take it. "There's food and water for both of you. After you've had time to rest, Marcel says we're going to have another contest." He set the water skin and bag on the ground and walked away.

D'Artagnan looked at the older musketeer. "Another contest. What do you think Marcel means by that?"

"I wouldn't hazard a guess." Athos passed over the water skin and let D'Artagnan drink first. Athos opened the bag, finding chunks of bread and even a piece of cheese for each of them. He took a piece of the cheese and broke off half of the bread, handing the remainder of the food over to D'Artagnan. He looked at the food uncertainly and only nibbled at it. "Eat it all," Athos told him.

D'Artagnan leaned back against a rock, shutting his eyes and making no effort to continue eating. "I don't think I feel like eating." He handed the rest of the food back to Athos, who noticed how pale he was.

"Your condition is getting worse," Athos told him. "Our time is running out. Whatever it is they have planned, keep your eyes on me, D'Artagnan. I'll give you a signal when it's time to move against them."

D'Artagnan wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. "You decide when it's time."

When their captors had finished eating, Marcel came over to the musketeers. "I think you've rested long enough. You should be ready now."

Athos regarded him warily. "Ready for what?"

"You and D'Artagnan here are going to entertain us with a swordfight. We know your reputation with a sword and the boy beat Labarge, so we want to find out which one of you is the best."

"He can't fight. He's in no condition."

"He'd damned well better fight and give it his best. This is going to be a fight to the death. Whichever one of you kills the other, wins the right to live."

D'Artagnan looked stunned. "We won't do this!"

Athos put a hand on his arm. "Get the swords."

"Fine! You'll have short swords, but we'll have long swords, so don't think that your weapons will be a match for ours." He gave them a smug look and went to get the swords.

"Athos! We can't—"

Athos stopped him. "Think about it. This gives us a chance to have weapons in our hands. Remember what I showed you about the element of surprise the last time we trained together."

"I remember."

"Then watch me and when I give the signal, make the right move. I know you're not well enough for this, but give it all you've got and make it appear as though you're really trying to win. I'll do the same."

Marcel came back with two short swords and pointed out where he wanted them to fight. "You'll have more room over there." Athos stood up and helped D'Artagnan to his feet. They moved into the area that Marcel had indicated. "Move apart, facing each other," Marcel instructed. When they had done so, he placed the swords on the ground between them. He stepped back out of the way. "Begin!"

Athos allowed D'Artagnan time to pick up his sword before he reached for his own. They circled each other before they moved in closer and their swords engaged. Despite D'Artagnan's weakness and injured leg, he moved as best he could, but it was a half-hearted attempt.

"FIGHT, YOU BASTARDS," Labarge yelled and spat on the ground in disgust.

"Give it more effort," Athos urged.

Trying to ignore how badly he felt, D'Artagnan grit his teeth, reached down for an extra reserve of strength and fought more aggressively. Their swords clashed amid parries and thrusts, all the while getting closer to where their captors stood next to each other, their hands resting on their own swords.

D'Artagnan looked directly into his mentor's eyes. Athos gave a slight nod. "Now!" Both of them whirled and threw their swords. D'Artagnan's sword sank deep into Labarge's chest and blood spurted from his wound, covering his chest. He dropped to the ground, motionless. Athos's sword found Marcel's throat, severing an artery. Marcel crumpled to the ground.

"Marcel! You've killed my brother! Clement stood in shock for a moment, and then rushed at Athos with his sword. Athos collided with him and they fought for possession of the sword until Athos wrenched it away from Clement and thrust it into his heart. Clement died instantly. Athos glanced over at the other two, seeing that they were both dead. He turned away to see that D'Artagnan had fallen to his knees. He looked up at Athos as he approached.

"Are they all dead?"

"Yes. You did well. Extremely well, considering the condition you're in." He gripped D'Artagnan's arm and helped him to his feet.

D'Artagnan looked relieved. "You wouldn't really have killed me, would you?"

Athos smiled. "There have been times that I felt tempted to kill you, but no, not like this."

A shudder went through D'Artagnan's body. "I want to get out of here. I don't want to have to look at them anymore."

"I'll move their bodies into some brush. The authorities can be notified about them later, but first, I want to cut up their shirts. You need bandages."

Although he felt like collapsing on the ground, D'artagnan spoke with dogged determination. "I can help."

Athos was firm. "No. You're in no shape to help. I can handle this."

"I want to help," D'Artagnan insisted, despite beginning to tremble.

"Don't be so stubborn! You're bleeding again. You need to sit down and I'll get you some water."

The rush of adrenalin, which had pumped through his body during the swordfight, drained away. A wave of dizziness swept over him and he had to hold onto Athos to keep from falling. "I feel dizzy," he mumbled.

"Come on." Supported by Athos, he was led over to a spot in the shade and helped to sit down. Athos filled a water skin with cold water from the spring. "Drink this," he ordered, "And just sit here and rest while I take care of what needs to be done." D'Artagnan gratefully gulped down the water and didn't attempt to argue any further.

Athos set about ripping up the backs of the shirts belonging to their captors, the bloodstained fronts being totally unusable. After this was done, he dragged their bodies out of sight behind some brush and then went over to D'Artagnan. He knelt beside him, concerned by how ill and exhausted he looked. Athos pressed his hand against D'Artagnan's forehead, expecting him to protest or attempt to pull away, but he did neither. "You're running a fever," Athos told him. "How are you feeling?"

"Bad," he admitted.

Athos placed a comforting hand atop D'Artagnan's head. "I have nothing to treat you with except water and more bandages."

"I know."

Athos rose to his feet. "I'm going to do what I can." He returned from the spring with wet cloths, which he used to clean the young musketeer's dirty face, neck and hands. He then used more wet cloths to clean the dirt from his badly bruised and cut feet. Athos took some dry strips of cloth and wrapped them around the injured feet. "This should make it easier to wear your boots." He retrieved D'Artagnan's boots and slipped them on him. "Now I need to see what I can do about the cut in your leg." The bandage was blood soaked and stuck to the wound. Athos began to remove it. D'Artagnan said nothing, but the sharp intake of his breath spoke for itself. He turned paler, biting his lip and clenching his hands tightly. Athos took a knife and cut a wide opening through D'Artagnan's breeches and underwear in order to get a look at the wound.

At this, D'Artagnan did make a protest. "Athos! You're destroying my uniform. These are new breeches."

Athos paid no heed. "It's not as if the bloodstains are ever going to come out. Your breeches are a total loss."

D'Artagnan looked unhappy.

"I'll wet another cloth." Athos wiped away blood from the wound, seeing that the flesh around it was red and swollen. He re-wrapped the wound with the cleanest of the pieces of cloth. "There's nothing more I can do."

"You've done all you can." His leg had started throbbing with pain and he felt nauseous. "I wish that Aramis was here."

"So do I." He placed a hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder. "Stay still. I'm going to get us ready to travel."

Porthos and Aramis rounded a curve and spotted the wagon that had been used to transport their two friends. They rode up to the wagon and dismounted. "What's a wagon doin' out here in the middle of nowhere and nobody around," Porthos said.

"Let's have a better look." Aramis peered through the wagon's back flap. "It's empty." He looked closer and climbed into the wagon, getting down on his knees. "This looks like bloodstains."

Porthos climbed in after him for a look of his own. "It does look like blood. You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"

"We don't know that the wagon has anything to do with Athos and D'Artagnan, but let's keep going."

Athos glanced over at D'Artagnan, who rode beside him. The boy's hands held a tight grip on both the reins and the pommel in an effort to keep himself from falling out of the saddle. "How much further," he asked, sounding totally spent.

"We'll stop as soon as we find water. We'll rest there and water the horses." Athos had chosen the two best looking horses for them to ride and had let the other one wander free. "Do you think you can stay on your horse until then?"

"I'm not going to fall off. I promise."

Athos wasn't certain about that, and he moved his horse closer. They rode on in silence, until Athos spotted two riders off in the distance, and coming towards them. Athos blinked, scarcely daring to believe his eyes. As they came closer, Athos could make out musketeer uniforms. He reached over and shook D'Artagnan's arm. "D'Artagnan! Musketeers are coming our way!"

D'Artagnan sounded groggy. "Musketeers?"

Athos waited until the riders came closer. "It's Aramis and Porthos!"

D'Artagnan looked up. "Aramis. Porthos," he mumbled, not seeming to fully comprehend.

Athos pulled his horse to a halt, reaching over to do the same to D'Artagnan's horse, as their friends caught up with them. "I don't think I've ever been this glad to see you two," Athos said.

Porthos wore a big grin. "Same here."

Aramis brought his horse up beside D'Artagnan, his eyes evaluating his condition. "What's going on with D'Artagnan?"

"He's had a rough time. An infected sword wound in his thigh is the worst of it. I'll tell you and Porthos everything that's happened when we find a place to stop."

"The horses smelled water a little ways back," Porthos said. "They led us to a stream. We can go back there."

"That's what we'll do," Athos said.

"Let's go, then," Aramis said. "The sooner I can take a better look at D'Artagnan, the better."

When they reached the stream, Aramis helped D'Artagnan down off his horse. "Can you walk by yourself," Aramis asked him, looking doubtful.

D'Artagnan pushed him away. "Yes." He took several tentative steps and stopped. His knees began to buckle.

Porthos swiftly swept him up off his feet. "Stubborn as always," he commented.

D'Artagnan tried to free himself. "Put me down," he pleaded.

"Shut up," Porthos ordered, in a tone that allowed for no argument.

Aramis spread a blanket on the ground and Porthos carefully lowered the boy onto it. "Let me have a look at you," Aramis said, noting the flushed cheeks and eyes bright with fever.

"The soles of his feet are in bad shape," Athos said. Aramis and Porthos gave him a questioning glance. "I'll tell you how that happened, but take care of him first."

"Porthos, will you get the medical supplies," Aramis said, as he began unwinding the bandage around the wound. "I brought along plenty of bandages and a few other items," he told Athos.

"There wasn't much I could do for him."

Aramis looked up at Athos. "Knowing you, I imagine you're the reason he's still alive. That's the most important thing you could do for him." He frowned at the sight of inflammation and swelling. Porthos dropped the packet of medical supplies beside him. "D'Artagnan." He shook him slightly to make certain that he understood what was coming. "Your wound is infected. I'm going to put something on it to try to reduce the infection. What I put on it is going to burn. I'm sorry, but this is the only way. If the infection doesn't get better, you could lose your leg. Do you trust me to do what's best for you?"

D'Artagnan nodded.

"Couldn't you give him some laudanum before you treat him," Athos asked.

Aramis's expression was regretful. "I don't have any. Laudanum is generally scarce. The infirmary at the garrison was almost completely out and they weren't expecting another shipment for days. I couldn't take any from the infirmary, not even knowing if it would be needed."

Aramis took out a small pottery container and removed the lid. "What's in that," Porthos asked.

"Salt, honey and vinegar, mostly. The ancient Romans used honey to treat wounds and salt water has been used on board ships to prevent infection. There are some herbs also mixed up in this, but no one is certain of how effective they are. Salt is the ingredient that's going to cause this to burn." He turned to Porthos. "Sit him up and let him hold onto you when I put this on him."

"Right." Porthos raised him up, then kneeled behind him and put his arms around D'Artagnan's waist.

When Aramis spread the mixture on the wound, D'Artagnan couldn't suppress a moan of pain. His fingers convulsively clutched at Porthos and he whimpered, his eyes filling with involuntary tears. He gasped and whimpered again, turning his head against Porthos's shoulder. Porthos continued to hold him until he felt the clenching fingers loosen their grip. He raised one arm and began stroking the boy's hair. "Easy now. The worst is over," he murmured. "This is going to make you better."

With a wet cloth, Athos wiped away the sweat from D'Artagnan's face. D'Artagnan closed his eyes, relishing the cool wetness against his skin and he relaxed further against Porthos's chest. As much as he wanted to be equal to Athos, Porthos and Aramis, he was still young enough to take comfort in being cared for by them. After the harsh treatment he had received from his captors, he could put up with being petted and coddled by his "big brothers" for a bit.

Aramis re-bandaged D'Artagnan's leg and then checked his other injuries. "There's nothing much to be done for his feet," he told Athos and Porthos, "Except for him to stay off of them as much as possible until they heal. They're going to be sore, but that will get better with time." He wrapped clean bandages around the damaged feet, and then put his hand on D'Artagnan's forehead. "The infection is causing him to run a fever. As much as it hurts, I'll have to keep applying the mixture to his leg. Since there's no herbal tea available for the fever, we'll have to keep after him to drink plenty of water."

"He lost a considerable amount of blood," Athos said.

"Food will help build his blood back up," Aramis replied. "He needs something liquid and easy to swallow like broth, but we'll have to get him to eat what we have."

"All we have left is some ham and some apples," Porthos said.

"I have cheese and bread," Athos added.

"We'll get him to eat what he can," Aramis said, spreading a blanket over D'Artagnan to ward off the evening's cool breezes.

D'Artagnan's fever rose during the night. It wasn't high enough to make him delirious, but he acted dazed and not quite aware of what was going on around him. Aramis kept wiping his face with a damp cloth and plying him with water, but by morning, he was little better. With obvious effort, he tried to eat the food urged upon him, but the meat was tough and the bread was getting hard, making chewing a slow and tiring process. Athos peeled one of the apples for him, cutting it into small pieces. He ate some of it, but couldn't finish the rest. "I'm sorry. I can't," he told them.

"Drink more water, then," Aramis urged.

"I already drank plenty of water," he protested, wearily leaning back against a rock and closing his eyes.

"You need to drink more. Don't argue with me. Then I'm going to treat your wound again before we leave here."

D'Artagnan gave in. "Give me the water. I'll drink it." He felt waterlogged from drinking so much, but still his insides felt dry and hot. He dreaded the ordeal of more treatment to his leg, yet knew that Aramis was as gentle with him as possible and that the treatment was necessary. When the second treatment was given, it hurt almost as much as the first and he needed time to recover from it while the other musketeers made preparations to leave.

While D'Artagnan rested, Aramis walked over to where Athos and Porthos were saddling the horses and put away his medical supplies. "Let's be on our way," he told them. "We need to get D'Artagnan back to Paris as soon as possible."

"Is he worse," Athos asked.

Aramis considered his reply. "Not worse, but not better. The longer he's without proper medical care, food that he can eat and a real bed, the more concerned I am about him."

"There's not even an inn on this road where we could stop," Athos said.

"Nothin' out here, but trees, rocks and birds," commented Porthos. "I can't wait to get back to Paris."

As they made their way back, they had to halt several times for D'Artagnan. "I need to stop again," he told the older musketeers, sounding apologetic. His three companions pulled up. "Sorry to keep stopping," he said. "I don't mean to be so much trouble."

"We're used to you being trouble," Aramis said with a grin, "But you can't help this."

Porthos assisted him in dismounting. "If you got to pee, you got to pee. We'll blame it on Aramis for makin' you drink so much water."

D'Artagnan stepped away and unfastened his breeches. When he was done, Porthos helped him to re-mount. "You good to keep on travelin'," Porthos asked him.

D'Artagnan nodded, hoping that he didn't look as bad as he felt.

They pushed on, stopping as few times as possible. D'Artagnan was so exhausted that two of the musketeers took to riding on either side of him, catching him when he started to topple off of his horse. Athos glanced over at D'Artagnan, seeing that he was remaining in the saddle only through sheer determination. "It's early, I know," he told Aramis, who rode on the other side of D'Artagnan, "But we need to stop soon for the night. I had hoped that we might reach Paris by tonight, but D'Artagnan looks as if he can't go much further."

Aramis studied the boy, slumped in the saddle with his eyes closed. "I agree."

D'Artagnan sat on the ground, while his companions took care of the horses and started a small fire, the evening having turned cooler than normal. They got out their dwindling supply of food and sat down to eat. Athos cut up an apple and brought it to D'Artagnan. He encouraged him to eat it and sat down beside him.

"Tomorrow, we'll be in Paris," Porthos said with satisfaction, after chewing and swallowing a tough piece of ham. "I can't wait."

"Neither can I," said Aramis. "I'm looking forward to it almost as much as the first time I saw Paris. I was six or seven at the time. I had never seen a place so big and crowded."

Athos munched on a piece of cheese. "I don't think anyone ever forgets their first sight of Paris." The men went on talking about Paris while they ate. After a while, Athos felt D'Artagnan leaning against his shoulder and saw that he had fallen asleep.

Aramis brushed bread crumbs from his hands and came over to them. "I'd better wake him up and get him over to his blanket, so that I can treat his wound again."

"Do you have to disturb him," Athos asked. "It will hurt him less if he can remain asleep while you treat him."

Aramis considered the suggestion. "It's worth a try." Athos shifted D'Artagnan around so that he was lying in Athos's lap. Aramis retrieved his medical supplies, unwound the bandage and examined the wound. He looked pleased. "The wound appears less red and swollen. As the infection lessens, the treatment isn't as painful." He applied the substance he had been using, and D'Aragnan moved and made a face in reaction to the pain. He mumbled something incomprehensible, but didn't become fully awake. Aramis put his hand on the boy's forehead, and D'Artagnan opened drowsy eyes. "You still have a fever, but you don't feel any hotter," Aramis told him. "Here." He reached for the water skin that Porthos brought him. "Drink as much of this as you can and then it's bedtime for you."

The next morning, the three older musketeers were encouraged by D'Artagnan's improvement, including his willingness to eat a bit more. While D'Artagnan sat on his blanket, looking far more alert than the night before, Aramis examined him. "Your wound is looking much better," he told D'Artagnan, "But when we get back to the garrison, the doctor needs to have a look at it."

D'Artagnan's expression became sulky. "I don't like the new doctor at the garrison. Why do I have to see him? You've taken good care of me."

"D'Artagnan, I'm not a real physician. He is."

"I don't want to go to the infirmary."

"Why not," asked Porthos.

"Lots of reasons."

"Such as," Athos said.

D'Artagnan sighed in exasperation. "The doctor pokes and prods you for the fun of it and he pays no attention to how much it hurts. He makes you drink some God awful stuff that tastes like poison because he's mean."

"You're acting like a child," commented Athos.

"No, I'm not."

"Maybe that's because he still _is_ a child," Porthos said, with a grin.

D'Artagnan scowled at him.

"I've hurt you myself, and I've made you drink some stuff you didn't like," Aramis reminded him.

"Yes, but you didn't act like you enjoyed it." He turned a beseeching look on Aramis. "Don't make me go to the infirmary. You can keep on taking care of me, can't you?" He turned the same pleading expression on Athos and Porthos in an effort to enlist their support.

"Uh oh! He's doin' it again," Porthos said

"Doing what," D'Artagnan asked.

"Usin' them big, brown eyes of yours to get your way. It makes it hard for any of us to tell you 'No' when you do that."

"Athos tells me 'No' all the time."

"Athos is stronger than Aramis and me."

"And Athos doesn't tell you 'No' all the time," Aramis said. "You get your way around him more often than you should."

D'Artagnan increased the intensity of his pleading expression. "Aramis, please."

"All right! All right! I give up," Aramis conceded. "I'll make a deal with you. If you're not doing any worse by the time we reach the garrison, you won't have to go to the infirmary. If you _are_ worse, you're going to see the doctor, like it or not."

"Deal," said D'Artagnan, confident that the doctor visit could be avoided.

As the four musketeers approached the outskirts of Paris, each of them was lost in his own thoughts: Porthos was looking forward to seeing a woman who had promised him a dinner of roast duck when he returned to the city. Perhaps afterwards, there would be an invitation to spend the night in her bed. Athos looked forward to a bath and clean clothes, followed by a hot meal and a bottle of good wine. Aramis dreamily contemplated getting better acquainted with the three women he had flirted with the last time he had attended mass. Although D'Artagnan didn't understand what it was about his eyes that made it so difficult for his friends to refuse him, he considered trying the look out on Treville. Maybe the captain could be persuaded to use the musketeers' operating funds to pay for a new pair of breeches to replace his ruined ones. He wasn't at all certain of Treville's susceptibility to "the look," but he intended to find out.

End


End file.
